


Blue Skies

by Woland



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Tony, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not CACW movie compliant, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-10-09 07:23:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17402543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woland/pseuds/Woland
Summary: Bucky and Tony decide to get away for a romantic weekend at the beach - nice, quiet, peaceful.And then a storm comes...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This little plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone until I allowed it to play a bit. Let me know what you, guys, think in the comments.

Blood.  So, _so_ much of it.  Too much.  The wadded up kitchen towel he’d pressed against the wound has turned dark crimson with it, and it still continues to flow, soaking into the already saturated fabric, coating his fingers a sickeningly bright red…

 

“Fuck!”

 

This shouldn’t have happened.  This should never have happened! 

It was their first romantic getaway – a mini vacation for just the two of them.  A chance to unwind, to explore, to connect in all the ways they’ve been unable to at home.  To get away from the hectic grind of New York, from the ubiquitous stress and dangers of their daily lives as Avengers, from the all-too-curious (and at times judgmental) looks of their teammates. No stress, no work, no distractions – just him and Tony.  It should have been the best weekend of their lives. 

 

Instead, here Tony is, bleeding out on the pristine tiled floor of their rented beachside bungalow. All because Bucky couldn’t get his fucking head under control.   

 

A cold trembling hand closes over Bucky’s blood-stained one, startling him out of his self-flagellating thoughts.

 

 “My f… fault,” Tony insists, not for the first time since this whole mess began, since Bucky, terrified out of his mind, guided him, gasping, down to the floor.  “Sta…startled you.”  

 

Only Tony’s breaths are becoming more and more labored with each passing second and his face has lost all of its color and the damn blood won’t stop flowing…

 

“Shut up!” Bucky growls, fear warring with anger in his heart – anger at himself, at this stupid bungalow in the middle of nowhere with the closest hospital a good half hour drive away, at the goddamn thunderstorm that rolled through the area overnight, knocking down trees and power lines and triggering his flashback, at the fact that it’s the middle of the night and the repair crews haven’t been out yet and the majority of roads are probably flooded or blocked, and Tony is _dying,_ and…

 

“Shut up!” he repeats, pressing his hands harder onto the wound.

 

Tony gasps in pain, slams his eyes shut, the back of his head thumping on the kitchen cabinet he’s propped up against.  “S-savage,” he pants out, one eye opening a slit to give Bucky a weak reproachful glare before sliding shut once more.  

 

Bucky grits his teeth, biting down on a useless “sorry”.  Glances over his shoulder at the kitchen window, the inky blackness outside punctuated by the slowly abating nocturne of howling wind and pounding rain.   It’s still pretty bad out there, he knows, but they’re gonna have to take their chances.  There are simply no other options.

 

“Can you make it to the car?” he asks, gentle now as he pulls his flesh hand away from Tony’s stomach to cup his cheek, smearing blood on the pale skin.

 

Tony leans slightly into the touch, the lines of pain crisscrossing his forehead smoothing out a bit as he seems to draw comfort from it, however small.  Opens his eyes once more, blinking blearily at the rain-blotted window at Bucky’s back.  

“S’bad out there,” he points out unnecessarily, his words slurring together so much that Bucky wants to just haul him up as is, ceremony be damned, and run for the car.  But he can’t do that, he can’t do that – no matter how terrified he is.  Because Tony’s too fragile right now, too hurt.  And Bucky’ll be damned if he causes him any more pain.

 

“We’re gonna have to risk it,” he says instead, lowering his head to capture Tony’s pain-blurred gaze.  Vows, making sure to convey his message loud and clear, “I ain’t letting you die.”

 

The corner of Tony’s mouth twitches, those whiskey brown eyes Bucky’s grown to love so much crinkling with amused fondness.  He lets his head fall forward, his cold, sweat-dotted forehead thumping weakly against Bucky’s own.  Breathes, fast and shallow, taking comfort from their contact as he prepares himself for the inevitable pain.

 

“Lead on… MacDuff,” he huffs out finally, reaching out to grasp Bucky’s shoulder to lever himself up.

 

Bucky’s gentle, as much as he can be, but it’s not enough, it’s not _nearly_ enough.  And he is helpless to do anything as he feels Tony’s body tremble more and more in his grip with each hurried step they take, as he listens to Tony’s harsh, wheezed out breaths and the grunts of pain the man can’t quite suppress.  And Bucky has to fight the urge to slam his fist into the nearest weight-bearing wall, over and over, until every goddamn bone in there is broken irreparably so his goddamn fingers can never handle another knife, ever again.

 

“S-stop… th…thinking so… h-hard,” Tony pants out, sagging heavily against him as they stop beside the car long enough for Bucky to pull the passenger side door open.  “I a..already t-told you…”

 

“Not my fault, I know,” Bucky repeats obediently, helping settle Tony on the seat.  But his voice is just a bit too strained, and he avoids Tony’s eyes just a bit too deliberately, and Tony knows him just a bit too well.  So he’s not surprised when Tony reaches for him, fisting the front of his shirt in his trembling blood-stained hand.

 

“S-say it like you mean it… Buttercup,” he jokes, but there’s no trace of humor in the warm pain-dulled gaze.  Nothing but wistful understanding and calm, sorrowful acceptance.  

 

And, damned, if it doesn’t make Bucky’s fear rise up another notch.

 

He grits his teeth against the ever-expanding ice-cold feeling inside his chest that makes his heart stutter and stop like a scared, cornered rabbit.  Forces his suddenly numb fingers to move as he stretches the safety belt across Tony’s injured midsection, careful to avoid the still-bleeding wound. Moves to pull away. 

 

“Bucky?” Tony’s fingers clench harder around his shirt, keeping him in place. 

 

He closes his eyes briefly, sucks in a long, shaky breath.  “We gotta get going, doll,” he tries, stubbornly keeping his gaze locked on the seatbelt, on the section of it that borders the wound.  Swallows down a fresh wave of fear as he watches the blood slowly begin to seep into the edge of the fabric.  “Th’ roads are bad, like you said.  We gotta… I gotta hurry.”

 

Tony doesn’t release him, though.  Yanks impatiently on Bucky’s shirt instead, forcing him to look up

 

“Don’t run,” he whispers, his voice barely audible now but there’s a feverish kind of intensity in his eyes that pins Bucky in place.  “If I don’t… if I d…die… promise me you’ll go… home… Promise y…you won’t… run.”

 

Bucky feels his throat close up.  “Tony…”

 

“ _Promise_!” Tony’s fingers are trembling with the effort of maintaining their grip.

 

Bucky wants to tell him to shut up, wants to rip his shirt out of Tony’s feeble grasp, get behind the wheel and drive.  Because he doesn’t even want to _think_ about the possibility of Tony dying.  Can’t consider it.  Won’t!  Because … home? Home is _Tony_.  And if Tony’s not there, where does he go then? Where _can_ he go?

But Tony’s looking at him with those big pleading eyes, and Bucky never _has_ been able to deny him.

 

“I promise,” he relents gruffly, forcing himself not to look away from Tony’s intense, scrutinizing gaze.  “Can we go now?”

 

Tony nods, relief flooding his features.  Lets his hand fall away.  Sags exhausted against the seat, eyes slipping shut.

 

Bucky wastes no more time.

 

***

 

Twenty-two miles.  That’s how far he manages to get before he finds the road ahead blocked completely by a fallen tree and he sees no way to get around it.  There was a fork in the road they passed some twenty minutes ago, and he considers for a moment turning the car around to backtrack there in the hopes of finding a different way.  But then he looks out at the rain still pounding on their windows, and he remembers how badly flooded that section of the road was, how hard it was to get through twenty minutes ago, how it must be impossible now…

 

No, going back is not an option.

 

Beside him Tony sits silent and still, slumped awkwardly against the passenger door, his eyes closed, his face – a terrifying deathlike gray.  He’s alive, Bucky knows that much.  Can hear the reassuring thump-thump-thump of his heart.  But it’s faint, getting fainter with each passing second it seems, and…

 

Bucky looks past the fallen tree trunk at the road sign partially illuminated by the rain-scattered light of the headlights, at the big “H” on it and the washed out number of miles underneath they still have left to go.  Looks back at Tony, at the shallow rise and fall of his chest, at the pale hand lying limply across his blood-soaked midsection.   

 

There’s a sudden cracking noise as the steering wheel he’s been gripping shatters under the impossible pressure, the sound snapping him into action.  And then he’s moving.  Throwing open his door with enough force to make the window explode as from a bullet strike.  Jogging around to Tony’s side.

 

“We’re gonna have to get a little wet here, doll,” he warns, as he opens the passenger side door and leans in to undo the seatbelt. 

Tony’s eyelashes flutter weakly when Bucky slides his arms under him, peel open a slit.  “Bucky?” 

 

His voice sounds so small, so thin, so confused that all Bucky wants to do is hug him as tight as he can, to shield him from the world itself and from the likes of Bucky in it – those who would hurt him, those who would cause him pain.

 

“It’s me, doll,” he manages, his throat impossibly tight as he pulls Tony toward him, hoisting him up carefully into his arms.  “I’m getting you to the hospital.”

 

Tony nods, trusting, his head lolling feebly against Bucky’s shoulder.  Buries his face in the side of Bucky’s neck.  “Love you,” he murmurs – a faint huff of a breath against Bucky’s skin.  “Shou...sh’lda… told’ya… soon’r.”

 

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden acid-like burn.  Sucks in a breath, shaky and sharp like cut glass.

 

“I love you, too, Tony,” he whispers, blinking away moisture that has nothing to do with the rain that pelts down on both of them.  Glares at the damn sign up ahead, tightening his hold on his precious cargo as much as he dares.  “I love you, too.” 

 

And then he runs.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 

He paces.  Intent and furious like a caged tiger, his body vibrating with tension.  Twenty steps from the door of the OR to the window – a sharp turn – thirty more steps past the clock on the wall to the opposite side of the hallway – another turn – ten steps back to the door of the OR – pause – start all over again.  The only sounds accompanying his incessant motion are the annoyingly loud squelching of his wet boots on the linoleum floor and the relentless ticking of the clock, ruthlessly timing the agony of his wait.

 

_6:15 am_

 

One hour and seventeen minutes since he burst into the hospital reception area with Tony in his arms, dripping wet and roaring at someone to _help, fucking help me!!!_ Because Tony had lost consciousness too long ago, and he felt too cold in Bucky’s arms, and that slow thready beat of Tony’s heart that Bucky had clung to for reassurance as he plowed his way through flooded streets had become too faint to be heard over the frantic thump of his own.  

One hour and seventeen minutes since Tony was whisked away from him with urgency that was less than reassuring. 

One hour and seventeen minutes since he had nothing to focus on but his own thoughts, which kept bringing him back to the bungalow, to the damn nightmare that started it all.

 

_It was a clap of thunder that had awoken him – a deafening bang that reverberated across the room shaking the windows and coinciding perfectly with the harsh report of a gun in his dream.  He jackknifed in bed, wide nightmare-clouded eyes darting over to the window, to the wind-whipped shadows moving against the dark panes.  Black uniforms was what he saw.  Black uniforms with a red octopus symbol on the sleeve.  HYDRA!  Closing in on his location._

_He needed a weapon._

_He slipped out of bed, pulling on his boots.  Made his way stealthily across the room, his ears attuned to the slightest noise, the faintest rustle.  HYDRA would be breaching the perimeter any moment now.  He needed to be prepared._

_He crept silently along the walls, heading for the kitchen. Knives.  There were knives there, he remembered.  Remembered seeing a big wooden knife block on the counter by the fridge.  A knife wasn’t ideal, but he didn’t have his gun, and he would have to make do.  At least until he could lift something more substantial from one of the HYDRA goons._

_He heard a voice call out to him, distorted by the angry howl of the wind outside.  Heard footsteps, soft and bare, muffled by the lashing of the rain against the windows.  They were here.  Creeping up behind him._

_Closer._

_Closer._

_Closer…_

_His fingers wrapped around the handle of the knife, his body tensing in preparation as he felt a hand press with an odd kind of hesitance against his shoulder._

_And then he spun, thrusting his weapon into the pliant flesh in one sharp unforgiving move._

He stumbles, pausing his furious pacing to brace himself against the windowsill.  Stares unseeing at the slowly brightening skyline as his mind spins and churns, assaulting him with a nauseating deluge of images. 

 

_Tony’s face – pale and wide-eyed, mouth open on a gasp of pain._

_The fingers of Tony’s hand clenching convulsively on Bucky’s shoulder as his knees begin to buckle._

_The weight of Tony’s body as he sags against Bucky with a soft moan._

_The sound of the knife clattering to the floor as Bucky’s horror-numbed brain finally snaps into action and he grabs for Tony, breaking his inexorable descent to the floor._

_His trembling hands on Tony’s stomach, pressing down, even as red spills between his fingers, coating his skin._

_Tony’s voice, strained and breathy, as he tells Bucky over and over that it’s okay, it’s okay, it wasn’t your fault._

He had been about to strike again.  God help him, he had been about to strike again before he finally registered who stood before him.  He could have killed Tony right then and there.  Could have been left standing over Tony’s body with nothing to show for his miserable excuse for existence but the blood on his hands, the blood of the one person who had come to mean the world to him.

 

Maybe he had.  Maybe Tony was already dead by the time they put him on the operating table, bled out before help could reach him.  Maybe that’s why nobody’s coming out to talk to him.  Maybe all of this – all of his desperate attempts to save him – was for nothing.

He shakes his head, willing the sinister thoughts away.  Clenches his jaw with teeth-shattering desperation, glancing over his shoulder at the resolutely closed doors of the OR.

 

He needs so desperately to know what’s happening behind them.  Needs to see Tony.  Needs to watch those damn doctors because he still doesn’t trust anybody in a medical garb, and it’s only because Tony was dying and Bucky didn’t have _a fucking choice_ that he managed to walk in here, to hand Tony over to these people despite the fact that his whole being rebelled against the idea, that the urge to take Tony back from them and run was almost overwhelming.   But Tony was dying, and Bucky was powerless to help him.  So he forced himself to let Tony go, to let the doctors take him away.

 

It felt worse than getting his arm ripped off.

 

He feels lost.  Cast adrift without an anchor.  And useless, completely, utterly useless. 

When he was taking Tony here, as scared, as devastated as he was, he had a purpose, a mission.  He was trying to keep Tony alive.  He was helping.  He was _useful_.  And now?  Now he’s reduced to marching up and down the hallway like a restless wind-up toy.  Idle, ineffective. 

 

A failure.

 

He looks up at the clock again, at the minute hand that’s inching closer to the half-hour point.  He can’t do this anymore.  Can’t stand the wait.  It’s been… it’s been too long.

 

He clenches the fingers of his metal hand into a fist, takes off at a determined stride toward the OR doors, intent on plowing his way through.

 

And near-skids to a halt as the doors open suddenly before him, a weary-looking surgeon stepping out.

 

“Mr. Barnes?” he calls, tired pale-gray eyes coming to rest on Bucky.    

 

He nods numbly, not trusting himself to speak.  Stands there on legs that are too rubbery all of a sudden for him to attempt any forward motion, his eyes glued to the patches of red staining the surgeon’s scrubs.  Blood.  Tony’s blood.  _Tony’s blood_.

 

The surgeon is talking, his face creased with fatigue and concern, but Bucky can’t hear a word he says past the roar of blood in his ears and the crescendoing thoughts of “He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead” pulsating in his mind. 

 

He must have swayed, his body too numb, his legs too unsteady, because the surgeon was suddenly right there before him, hands on Bucky’s shoulders, and he’s pushing him back toward the wall, forcing him to slide down.  Bucky doesn’t resist, pliant like he hasn’t been since HYDRA.  Lets the man guide him to the floor.  Because what does it matter anymore?  What does anything matter anymore now that Tony’s gone?

 

“He’s gonna be okay.” 

 

The surgeon is crouching before him now, one hand on Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky blinks at him, bewildered, as the words finally, _finally_ filter through the haze.

 

“Wh…what?”

 

“Your husband,” the surgeon repeats patiently, a soft reassuring smile tugging at his lips.  “The surgery went well.”

 

“My h…”  He shakes his head, willing for his scrambled, scattered thoughts to splice themselves into some semblance of order. 

 

_Husband_ , right.  He’d put Tony down as his husband on the admission paperwork so they wouldn’t bother him with the next-of-kin questions.  It wasn’t all that preposterous an idea either.  He was gonna propose to Tony this weekend.  Had the ring in his pocket and everything.  Had the whole day planned out for them… until it all went to hell.  

 

He swallows convulsively against the memories.  Tries again.  “He’s alive?”

 

His voice is barely more than a pathetic croak, but the surgeon hears him just fine.   Nods at Bucky, his smile growing warmer, understanding.  “He’s alive, yes.  They are just getting ready to move him to the recovery room.  He won’t be awake yet, but you’ll be able to sit with him there a bit.”

 

Bucky feels something unclench in his chest – a cold, stifling vise that had clamped around his ribcage the moment he jabbed that knife into Tony’s body – has finally snapped open, and he can breathe again.  So he does.  Frantically, rapidly.  Feeling like his heart is about to burst through the freshly opened hole in the ice.

 

The hand on his shoulder tightens, the surgeon tilting his head slightly to capture Bucky’s wild gaze.  “Easy,” he tells him, “easy.”  Pushes down when Bucky makes an awkward attempt to get his feet back under him.  “Stay here,” he instructs, “sit, breathe.  Someone will come get you when your husband’s ready.”

 

Bucky manages a nod.

 

***

 

A nurse comes for him a short while later, and he feels steady enough to stand up and follow.  Feels steady enough to walk after her into the room, where Tony lies, swathed in a blanket that rivals the waxen color of his skin.  Steady enough to pull up a chair, careful to avoid the machines that are crowding beside Tony’s bed, staring warily up at the heart monitor that beeps a steady rhythm above Tony’s head.

 

“He’s doing good,” the nurse reassures from behind him.  “His heart was having a bit of trouble handling the blood loss, like the doctor told you, but he _is_ stable now.  The monitor is just for us to keep an eye on him.”

 

And, just like that, the steady feeling goes away, and, boy, is he glad he’s already sitting down, because he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have been able to remain standing.  Not with the way his whole body grows abruptly, utterly numb. 

 

“His… his heart stopped?” he manages, hand reaching shakily for Tony’s (cold but alive, alive!).  Grips it with all the desperation of a drowning man, as the room spins wildly around him, his vision tunneling dangerously. 

 

The nurse continues to speak behind him – something about the surgeon’s explanations and severe blood loss and how Tony got lucky and everything is okay now and he is weak but recovering nicely….  

Bucky nods as if he understands.  He doesn’t.  Not really.  He doesn’t remember the surgeon saying any of those things.  Couldn’t really hear the man.  Can’t really hear much now.  

 

But he does understand one thing _very_ clearly.   He killed him.  He killed Tony.  Tony _died_ on that operating table, and it was all Bucky’s fault. 

 

He wants to vomit.

 

The nurse finishes writing down something in her notes and leaves the room, telling Bucky she’ll be back to check on Tony in a little while.  He nods again, curt, automatic, hand clenching convulsively around Tony’s. 

He can’t stay here.  Can’t bear to be by Tony’s side knowing what he’s done.  How can he?  He vowed to himself that he would protect Tony, keep him safe.  And Tony can’t be safe with him around.  He got lucky this time, like the nurse said.  _Lucky_.  But there’s no way he’s gonna tempt his luck again.  Not with Tony’s life as the stake.

 

He gets up from his chair, steps closer to the head of the bed.  Leans down to press a gentle, lingering kiss on Tony’s forehead.  “I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words grating, choking him as they make their way past his throat.  Presses a trembling hand against Tony’s cheek, blinking against the tears that blur his vision, washing out the familiar features.  “I love you.  I’m sorry.”

 

And then he tears himself away – ripping the Bandaid off violently and all at once, walks to the door, pulling out his phone as he goes.  “I need you to come,” he says gruffly the moment the call connects, not letting the other person get a word in edgewise.  “I’ll explain everything when you get here.  I’ll text you the address.” 

 

And he walks out, forcing himself not to look back.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

Waking up feels odd.  A slow, grudging ascent to the surface through layers and layers of thick, viscous muck that keeps trying to drag him back under.  He fights stubbornly against the unforgiving mire, claws his way to consciousness.  Because there’s someone there he needs to see, someone important, someone… someone…

 

A face floats across the milky fog of his memory – nebulous and fleeting like a wisp of a breath on a crisp spring morning.   He tries to chase after it, his lips twitching soundlessly to curl around a name:  _B…Bu… Bucky_

Hands are on him suddenly, gentle, soothing.  They press a cautious palm against his chest, keeping him from moving; trace a light path down his cheek.

 

“Tony,” he hears – a voice familiar, but wrong somehow, all wrong, all wrong.  “It’s okay, Tony.  You’re safe.”

 

“Bu…” he tries again, and the thinks he said it out loud now, thinks he made himself heard.  Tries to open his eyes, to push the unwanted hands away, so he can make room for the one he wants, the one he needs.

 

But the hands press harder still, and the voice in his ear becomes urgent now, and pain spikes sharp and sudden in his abdomen and he can’t breathe and….

 

…

 

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he surfaces again.  It must have been a while, though, because the sharp, breath-cutting pain from before is now nothing more than a dull ache somewhere at the edges of his consciousness.  He feels something on his face, an odd pressure around his mouth and nose; air, cool and pleasant, flowing into his lungs.  _Oxygen mask_ , his sluggish brain supplies.  It’s odd, he thinks.  He doesn’t remember feeling it before.

 

Slowly, laboriously, he drags open his eyes.  Squints blearily at the hazy smears of shapes and colors that fill his vision, lazily, reluctantly coalescing into something more or less recognizable.  Raises an uncooperative, lead-heavy arm to pull at the strap of the mask that’s cutting a bit uncomfortably into the skin of his cheek.

 

And freezes halfway to his goal as the dark, gently bobbing blob at the far end of the room finally snaps into focus.

 

_Natasha._

 

She isn’t looking his way as she paces back and forth at the foot of his bed, her face downturned, all of her attention on the phone she has pressed against her ear.  She’s talking, Tony realizes, and so he stills, tries to focus his still fuzzy hearing as much as he can to make out the words.

 

“I don’t know, I… I really don’t.  They think it was a panic attack – he was fighting me, he… he wasn’t really with it.  I think… No, no! What he _needs_ is… No, Yasha, listen! He was… _You!_ I think he was trying to call for _you_.” 

 

_Yasha_

 

His mind jolts, stutters, thoughts tumbling and tangling together before grinding to a jarring halt.

 

_Yasha_

He reaches up shakily, yanks the oxygen mask off.  “Where…” The word catches and sticks uncomfortably in his too dry throat and he slams his eyes shut, his body seizing as a series of harsh coughs tear through him, reigniting the heretofore dulled agony in his abdomen. 

 

When the coughing fit passes and the pain dies down enough that he is able to open his eyes again, Natasha is looming right over him, her face pinched with something that vaguely resembles concern.  The phone is no longer in her hand, he notes.  Instead there’s a cup of ice chips hovering inches away from his face.

 

He blinks at her, tiredly indicating his assent, and she spoons out a couple of chips, slides them carefully between his eagerly parted lips.

 

He sucks on them greedily, letting the trickle of ice-cold water soothe his parched throat.  Breathes carefully through his nose as he waits for the rest of the pain to subside.

 

“Do you want me to call the nurse?”  Natasha’s voice is careful, oh, so careful, and he can feel her eyes on him, watching, gauging, judging.  Probably trying to figure out how much he’s heard, he thinks bitterly.

 

“Where… is he?” he tries again, blatantly ignoring her pretense at concern for his well-being.

 

She opens her mouth, her features already morphing into an expression of innocent confusion and deniability, and his jaw twitches in anger.

 

“Don’t,” he warns, angrily waving off her attempt at evasion.  He doesn’t have the energy to deal with this right now. “I h-heard… you… okay?  I…” He closes his eyes, swallows around the remaining drops of cold liquid.  “He’s gone, isn’t he.”  It hurts to say this out loud.  So much.  It’s worse than the pain of his stab wound.  Worse even than the agony of the reactor being ripped out of his chest.  This?  This is his heart being slowly flayed apart.    

 

“I’m sorry, Tony.”

 

He huffs out a laugh at that – raspy and jagged and cracked in places.  _He promised_ , is all he can think.  _He fucking promised._  

 

He feels sick.

 

Natasha continues speaking, saying something about Bucky needing to take care of some things, admonishing Tony to be patient, to give him a little bit of time, that he’ll come around…

 

He raises his hand, calling a halt to the deluge of patronizing admonishments and excuses he’s hardly paying attention to, what with the ever-increasing roar of blood in his ears. 

 

“Please, leave.”

 

She stumbles, her perfectly manicured brows knitting in worried confusion at his quiet, gasped out plea.  “Tony, I don’t think…”

 

He closes his eyes demonstratively, turning his face away.  Repeats, more harshly this time. “Get out.”

 

He hears her shift awkwardly beside him, feels her gaze heavy on the side of his face.  “I promised him I’d keep an eye on you,” she says with a resigned sigh, and he almost wants to laugh at the irony of it all.

 

_“He promised me something, too,”_ is on the tip of his tongue and he grits his teeth hard against it.  Bites down until it hurts. 

 

“I’m a big boy, Natalie,” he spits out instead, turning briefly back toward her to favor her with a glare as cold and biting as his words.  “Haven’t needed a nanny since I was 7 years old.  I think I can manage.”

 

He doesn’t bother conversing with her further, tunes her out instead.  Closes his eyes again and waits in stubborn silence until he hears her retreating footfalls and the sound of the door clicking shut.

 

He gives himself another twenty minutes after that – just to be sure she’s left for good, before he begins the laborious, torturous task of getting out of bed.  Screw it, he’s got work to do.

                                                            

***

 

Tony doesn’t turn around when he storms into the workshop, remains seated with his back to the door, his attention glued demonstratively to whatever tech that lays on the desk before him.  And, honestly, Bucky’s glad for it.  It gives him a moment to regain his bearings, to school his features into something less off-putting than the murderous expression he’s likely wearing at this moment. 

 

He knows Tony’s aware of his arrival, can see it in the stiff set of Tony’s shoulders, the rigidness of his spine.  And he’s sure FRIDAY would have warned him long before he barged in here, nearly ripping the door off the hinges in the process – too impatient to wait for the lock to disengage fully.  So he likes to believe that the fact that Tony hasn’t locked the workshop down and hasn’t tried to have him kicked out (not yet, at least), is a good sign.

 

He almost rushed back to the hospital when Natasha first called him to tell him that Tony had woken up only to suffer some kind of a panic episode that may have actually set his recovery back a bit.  And he regrets now not following through on that impulse.  Not just because Natasha sounded so uncharacteristically rattled on the phone.  Not just because she all but growled at him, convinced that Bucky’s absence was somehow the catalyst for Tony’s panic attack.  Not just because he ached with the need to see Tony, to touch him, to hold him close – an ever-present, goring pain.

But because if he had listened to his gut, if he had come back, if he had _been_ there, maybe Tony wouldn’t have left.

 

He thinks back to that awful second phone call he received almost 20 hours ago – the one that had him scrambling, fighting against the current of distance and time to get back here to the Tower.  Remembers the tired resignation, the apology in Natasha’s voice.  She expected Tony to run, she’d told him.  She could see the signs, she said.  Knew it was coming, and she planned to be there to stop him.  She just didn’t expect him to run so soon, didn’t think he was in any condition to do it. 

 

Bucky doesn’t blame Natasha, he’d told her as much.  This mess?  This fuck-up? That is all on him. 

And he needs to be the one to fix it… if Tony gives him half a chance to.

 

“Why are you here?"

 

He jolts at the cold, quiet voice.  Hesitates, feeling oddly tongue-tied, as he fumbles for the right words to say in response. 

 

“I could ask you the same thing,” he blurts out finally and knows the instant the words leave his mouth that it was the wrong thing to say.

 

Tony shakes his head, pushes lightly away from the desk to swivel around to face him.  “No,” he says, his voice somehow managing to grow a shade colder, “you really can’t.”

 

“Tony…”

 

He looks awful, Bucky notes, tired, worn, his face – an ashen grey underneath the blue lights of the holograms.  And Bucky doesn’t miss the minute tremors that course through his body, the tight lines of pain around his mouth.  He shouldn’t be down here, he thinks.  He shouldn’t have even left the hospital bed. 

He tells him so.   

 

Tony’s cheek twitches in annoyance, his eyes growing hard.  “I think,” he says, voice low and strained as though saying the words is causing him pain (and maybe, Bucky thinks, it actually is), “you lost the right to tell me what to do when you chose to abandon me at the hospital.”

 

And yeah, yes, he’s right.  Bucky knows that.  But still… “I didn’t choose to abandon you, Tony,” he defends, flinching at the bitter huff of disbelief that greets his words.  “I didn’t.  I…” He sucks in a breath, his lips moving soundlessly as he wades through the jumbled mess of his thoughts, trying to string together a coherent phrase.  “I chose to keep you safe.”

 

“Safe?” Tony spits out with an angry, incredulous laugh.  “From you?”

 

“Yes!” he near-shouts, because shouldn’t that be obvious?  “I stabbed you, Tony.  I _stabbed_ you!”

 

Tony raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.  “I remember,” he quips.  “I was there.” 

 

He stands, wavering on his feet a little, and Bucky makes a move toward him, arms reaching out, intent on steadying him.  The look in Tony’s eyes stops him cold.   

 

“I also distinctly remember you telling me that you would stay.”  He cocks his head to the side, observes Bucky silently as if trying to ascertain something for himself.  “Perhaps you’ve forgotten.”

 

And, no, Bucky didn’t forget.  Everything from that awful night has seared itself permanently into his memory.  Including the hours it took him to wash Tony’s blood off his skin and clothes (he can still feel it drying in the grooves of his palms).

 

“Do you have any idea… the amount of blood you lost… you were…” His voice cuts out again, his breath catching, and he runs a hand through his hair in frustration, clenches it into a fist at the back of his head, tugging until he feels like the roots are about to be ripped from his scalp.  “You died, Tony,” he blurts out, his chest constricting all over again like it did back at the hospital when he first realized what had happened, the initial horror of it, the stifling nausea, the pain that threatened to shatter his heart to bloodied bits, as it threatens now.  “Your heart… stopped… during surgery.  You… you _died_.”  His breath hitches again, and then again and again, until he finds himself struggling to fill his lungs with air. 

 

Hands are on him suddenly, clutching his shoulder, gripping the back of his neck and pulling forward, forward and down, until he feels his forehead bump against a familiar, solid warmth.

 

“Breathe,” Tony’s voice commands him, muffled by the frantic beat of his heart that thunders loud and erratic in his ears, and the grip on the back of his neck tightens, conveying the urgency of the word, “breathe!”

 

He does.  Tries his best to mimic the exaggerated inhales and exhales of Tony’s breaths that ghost over his skin.

 

“I k… killed you,” he stutters out past a painfully spasming throat, desperate to make him understand.  Because he did this, he _did this_.  He’s dangerous.  He’s…  “I… I can’t…”

 

Tony’s hand drops from his shoulder, and he bites back a whine of protest.  Because he deserves this, he does.  Tony shouldn’t be anywhere near him.  It’s not safe, it’s not safe.  And he braces himself for Tony to pull away altogether.

 

Only to startle as gentle fingers curl around the flesh of his wrist and tug, pulling his arm up to have it rest, palm flat, against Tony’s chest. 

 

“I’m here,” comes the soft whisper of reassurance, “I’m okay.”  And Bucky’s hand clenches convulsively in the fabric of Tony’s shirt, fingers digging hard into the skin underneath. 

 

Tony doesn’t flinch, however.  Doesn’t attempt to move away from the likely painful pressure.  Stays perfectly still while Bucky clings to him like a drowning man to a piece of flotsam, letting the steady, reassuring beat of Tony’s heart and the familiar smell of Tony’s skin wash over his troubled senses, soothing, anchoring.

 

“I couldn’t sleep after New York,” Tony admits suddenly, pulling his head back to look at Bucky.  “Alien creatures, portals to other dimensions, and I’m… _me_ … A man in a can.”  Tony smiles self-deprecating, but Bucky can see the strain around his eyes, the effort it takes him to keep that smile in place.  “My nightmares got so bad that one of the armors _I created_ actually attacked Pepper when she tried to wake me up.  Because it was linked to my mind, my thoughts, my terrors, and it viewed her as a threat.”  He tilts his head forward a bit, his gaze expectant.  “Sound familiar?”

 

Bucky jerks his head to the sides, sharp.  “S’not the same,” he insists in a breathless huff.  “You didn’t… you didn’t hurt her.”  He’s sure of that fact somehow even though this is the first time he’s hearing about this.

 

“No,” Tony concedes, confirming his assumptions.  “But I could have.”  He takes a step back, pulling out of Bucky’s reach, crosses his arms shakily over his chest, concealing the soft glow of his arc reactor.  “For the longest time after Pepper and I broke up I didn’t believe that I would ever find myself in a relationship with someone again.  Someone as broken, as messed up as me?  Not exactly a relationship material, you know what I mean.” He snorts, bitter.  “Then I met you… and you were perfect for me in every… every way.  And you wanted to be with _me_ , and I…”  His expression twists in pain and he drops his gaze, stares blindly at some random point on the floor.

 

“I wanted us to last,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “I remembered how terrified I was of the possibility of hurting Pepper.  I didn’t want you to feel how I felt that night.  So I was working on something.  It…uh… it wasn’t ready yet when we left on our trip, but it would have… it would have been a… a way to fix it.” He glances up briefly, and Bucky feels his breath cut out at the depth of despair he sees in the whiskey-brown eyes.  “It’s what I do, right? I fix things” he smirks, no trace of humor in the pale, trembling line of his lips. “If only you’d trusted me enough to do that,” he adds, a low susurration of regret. 

 

“What are you…” Bucky licks his lips, apprehension making his throat dry.  “What do you mean?”

 

Wordlessly, Tony unfolds his arms, letting them drop languidly at his sides.  Straightens out, shoulders squared.  “Shoot me,” he directs, nodding at the SIG strapped to Bucky’s thigh. 

 

Bucky blinks sluggishly at him, taking a stumbling step back.  Wonders fleetingly if Tony has possibly lost his mind.  “W…what?”    

 

A flicker of annoyance passes across Tony’s face.  “You won’t harm me,” he assures, spreading his arms out to make himself a bigger target.  “Trust me.”

 

And Bucky doesn’t miss the way Tony stresses the word “trust”. Knows it’s a test of some kind, one he knows he can’t afford to fail.  So he nods tightly, pulls out his gun, willing for his hand not to shake.  Throws one last glance at Tony, who gives him a small encouraging nod.  Aims for Tony’s shoulder and squeezes the trigger. 

 

And feels his world stutter to a horrified halt when Tony is tossed backwards, thrown off his feet by the force of the bullet.

 

He rushes forward, heart in his throat.  Drops down on his knees beside Tony, running his hands frantically over Tony’s supine form, searching for the wound, for the spilling blood. 

 

“Easy there, Robocop,” comes the breathless huff of laughter, and he cuts a glance to Tony’s face, his fear-numbed brain registering dimly the glint of amusement in the brown eyes. “I’m alright.”  Tony waves a hand over his perfectly intact chest, and it is only now that Bucky notices a faint blue glow that seems to cover every inch of Tony’s body.  “See? No harm done.”

 

“What…” He forces himself to swallow, hands stilling their frenzied motions.  Tries again.  “What is this?”

 

“Armor,” Tony replies, his eyes gleaming with pride as he taps a finger at the arc reactor, and Bucky watches, wide-eyed, as the blue glow dissipates as if it was never there.  “It’s got its own separate AI that monitors everything around me 24/7.  The moment it detects a threat, it rolls out the armor.”  He beams up at Bucky, looking every inch a proud parent.  “The last time I tested it, the armor was fully engaged at .002 seconds, and it’s a learning AI, so I was hoping this time it would–”

 

“You were _hoping_?” Bucky’s voice squeaks on the word, an icy-cold feeling spreading once more in his chest.  Because what if it had happened again, what if he’d shot Tony, what if…  “You… you asked me to shoot you, and you weren’t even sure your armor would cover you in time?”

 

Tony shrugs with feigned nonchalance, but there’s a guarded, watchful look in his eyes.  “I trusted my tech,” he says simply.  “And I needed _you_ to trust _me_.”

 

Bucky moves to say something, to respond, but his breath catches on something in his chest that feels suspiciously like a sob, spills forth in a choked of growl.  His hands curl into fists on their own accord, and then he’s pulling Tony up into a sitting position, arms wrapping around him with almost savage, desperate strength, all but flattening him against his chest.  Hunches over him, burying his face in Tony’s hair, and breathing, breathing, breathing.

 

“Use your words, Buckaroo.” Tony’s voice is muffled against his chest, but Bucky can hear the amusement in it, the fond, breathless chuckle that follows.

 

“Idiot,” he huffs, pressing a quick, desperate kiss into the tousled hair.  “I could’ve–”

 

“But you didn’t.”  Tony plants his hand on Bucky’s chest, pushes back.  Watches Bucky expectantly, as if searching for something in Bucky’s face.  “You _didn’t_.  And you won’t, not anymore.”

 

“Tony…”

 

Whatever it is he sees, whatever it is he hears in Bucky’s tone, it obviously wasn’t what Tony was hoping for, and in the next instant the gentle push becomes a hard shove as Tony wriggles himself out of Bucky’s grip, stumbling back to his feet.

 

“Tony, wait, please!” Bucky lunges forward to steady him, only to freeze mid-movement at Tony’s angrily raised hand.

 

“You stabbed me,” Tony tells him, his voice flat, hand still held out, keeping Bucky at a distance.  “And it sucked, and it hurt and I was scared. But you were there.  I could _feel_ you there.  And it made it easier.”  His lips tremble slightly and he presses them together in an attempt to hide it.  Breathes long and deep through his nose. When he speaks again, his voice is hoarse with the strain of keeping his emotions in check.  “But waking up in that hospital and finding out that you were gone? That?  Hurt a hell of a lot worse.”

 

Bucky drops his gaze, unable to bear the broken look of disappointment in Tony’s eyes.  “I was afraid of hurting you again,” he whispers lamely and winces at the hollow bark of laughter that greets his words.

 

“Well, you did a bang-up job at that.”

 

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut in despair, swallows down against a bitter prickle of tears in his throat.  “I was… I was so afraid of losing you, I didn’t think…” He huffs brokenly, runs a shaky hand down his face.  “I was a coward,” he breathes, risking a look at Tony once more.

 

Tony watches him in silence for a long moment, the corner of his mouth pinched in obvious displeasure.  “If you’re waiting for me to disagree,” he drawls out finally, letting the rest of the phrase hang.

 

“No, no!” Bucky shakes his head in furious denial.  “That’s not what I want.”

 

Tony’s posture relaxes a fraction, but Bucky can still see the shadow of unease in his eyes.  “What _do_ you want then?”

 

“I…”  Bucky dares a small step closer, hand reaching out slowly as he waits with bated breath for Tony reject him, to pull away.  “I want to try again.”

 

Tony’s eyes widen, apprehension warring with hope in the chocolate depths.  He doesn’t move away, though.  Lets Bucky’s hand settle tentatively on his cheek.  “I can’t bear it if you run again,” he whispers, shaking his head slightly against Bucky’s palm.  “I’m not… I can’t…”

 

“I won’t,” Bucky swears, the certainty of that promise burning hot in his veins.  “I made the mistake of leaving you once and it nearly killed me.”

 

Tony leans into his touch, a ruefully chiding grin twisting his lips.  “Imagine how I felt.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky murmurs, daring to step closer, to place his other hand on Tony’s shoulder.  Tugs gently, feeling his heart soar with gratitude when Tony allows himself to be pulled into his embrace.  “I’m so, so sorry...”  He leans in, places a soft supplication of a kiss on Tony’s lips. “I won’t leave you again,” he reaffirms. “Not as long as you’ll have me.”

 

Tony hums appreciatively, licking the spot where Bucky’s lips touched his.  Turns, grabbing Bucky by the wrist and pulling him unceremoniously toward the elevator doors.

 

“What are you… where are we going?”

 

“Bedroom,” Tony responds with feigned insouciance as he drags Bucky inside the elevator car.  “I’ve been up for hours with the armor and the doctors insisted I need rest.”  He winks at him as the doors begin to slide closed, gives his hand a light squeeze.  “I think I’d like to enjoy the blue skies for a while, now that the storm seems to be over.”

 

And Bucky… Bucky’s more than alright with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it :) Come visit me on tumblr @somethingjustsouthofbrilliance


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